Scorch
by eugene-the-artichoke
Summary: The heat is almost too much for him to handle, and he is overwhelmed by the intoxicating smell of jasmine in his nostrils.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, JKR does.

**A/N: **Hello! I realize it's been a long while since I've written anything but this idea has been in my head for a bit. The pairing is unclear, so to see who I had in mind when writing it, read the _Author's Note_ at the bottom. I sincerely hope you like it. Enjoy!

**Scorch**

_By: eugene-the-artichoke_

The heat is almost too much for him to handle.

It is late August and he can feel beads of salty sweat appear on his forehead. It is midnight, as he tosses restlessly on the ink blue sheets, unable to shut his eyes from the outside world.

A soft knock breaks through the silence of the small room. The ivory curtains begin to rustle back and forth, in what seems like anticipation. Quickly, he stills his movements. Making sure to regulate his breathing, he closes his eyes, and feigns deep sleep.

The door slowly creaks opens, before being quickly shut once again. He is suddenly overwhelmed as the intoxicating smell of jasmine reaches his nostrils. The room becomes increasingly balmy. His palms begin to sweat.

She is here, and she is not fooled.

She knows he is as wide awake as she is. Knows he cannot reach the blissful state of sleep, just as she cannot. But she does not call on him. She lets him live his lie.

She makes her way to the small wooden desk, littered with papers and forgotten teacups. After hearing her rummage around for awhile, he slowly observes her through his dark lashes, and watches as small hands light an old candle.

It gives the old room an eerie glow, and he does not like it. He can hear his heart start to beat uncomfortably faster.

She approaches the bed again, and in one swift movement, places her small body next to his. The feel of her next to him is familiar and comforting, yet foreign all the same.

It has been so long since he has touched her.

The feel of her small cold hand on his chest, brings him harshly out of his thoughts. He opens his eyes. Obsidian eyes lock with blue, and a silent question is asked.

The answer is yes.

Feeling the sweet melancholy within him grow, he caresses her face softly. She kisses him them, with passion, with trust, with fervour. He responds with the same intensity, and he feels a deep stirring inside him.

Hands begin to roam, and clothes disappear. He feels his skin burn when she touches him. He begins to choke, as a lump forms in his throat, as his emotions threaten to suffocate him. He tries to ignore it, and begins to kiss her more feverishly.

She is his oxygen. It is she that keeps him suspended in this existence. Never allowing him to fully cross the line into destruction, into insanity; and all that comes with it.

They have played this game for as long as he can remember. He does not know whether they should stop _this_, whatever it was. He does not know what it is, or why they do it, or what it achieves.

They continue to touch and caress, and attempt to find a semblance of relief and pleasure in each other. After the release, they separate and no words are spoken. However, tonight, the silence is not uncomfortable as it usually is. There is something about this particular night. To him, it does not feel the same. Something has changed between them.

Hours later, they both stare at the cracked ceiling from opposite sides of the bed. The candle has long flickered out, and the previous fierce intensity in the room has diminished and cooled.

With a small gust of wind from the open window, comes a startling moment of clarity in his perpetually tangled mind. He hears a small gasp in the thick silence of the room, and doesn't even have to turn to see her look of realization.

"Comfort," they say in unison.

She continues as if speaking to the very night," That is all _this _is." He closes his eyes, and lets the gentle breeze sweep over his tired eyelids.

And, with a final squeeze of their hands, she slips out of his bed. He opens his eyes again to watch her gracefully exit the room. The door scrapes shut, and he resumes staring at the ceiling. In what seems like hours later, but in truth is only a few minutes, he hears his own voice break the stillness that has once again settled over the room. Softly he says, to the empty room, "Or maybe..." He pauses and takes a deep breath.

Sighing, he whispers, "…just maybe, it is more."

FIN.

**A/N:** I meant to write this as a very simple fic but by the time I had finished the first three paragraphs, I strayed form my original idea…a lot. I realized that it was just begging to be something more meaningful. The finished product turned out to be once again dark, bitter, and offbeat, but I'm still very pleased with it.

Honestly, I think it was inspired by HBP. The pairing I had in mind when I began writing it was Snape/Narcissa. I'm not a big Sev and Narcissa shipper (personally I prefer **She's a Star**'s Auriga/Severus) but in HBP, I felt that there was something different in their relationship. So I decided to try out this little piece with them. However, I seriously doubt I'll write this pairing again soon…unless people review and tell me they like it ;). Thanks for reading, and please review!


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